“Miss Conyers, it seems to me, speaking broadly, that all who are not killed are promoted. Among the killed, Miss Conyers, is that gallant young fellow they used to call the ‘Destroying Angel,’ on account of his fiery impetuosity.” “Who?” inquired Britomarte. “You know—he who was so adored in the whole brigade. What was his name again? I am the worst hand at names. I seem to get the idea without the word. What was it again? Bird?—no. Dash?—no. Spring?—no. But it was something with a _rush_ in it. WING! That was it. Ah, poor fellow!” “What of him?” inquired Britomarte, suppressing a laugh. “Missing—missing for nearly a year past. Dead, of course; lost among heaps of dead in the trenches, or the rivers, or the woods, or in the ditches of the Rebel prisons. Colonel Rosenthal has done all he could to discover traces of his fate, but in vain. And I really think the uncertainty wears upon the colonel.” “Perhaps Wing may yet be found in some of the rebel prisons of Richmond,” suggested Britomarte. “Heaven grant it. Yet it is not likely. Come, Miss Conyers; you look worn and wasted. Let me take you somewhere where you can be comfortably lodged and refreshed. Colonel O’Neill has his quarters at the Goldsborough House. His wife is with him. I know they will gladly welcome you. Will you let me take you there for the present?” “Thanks, yes! Anywhere—anywhere—out of this horrible place!” said Britomarte. Major Mim ordered an ambulance brought up, placed Miss Conyers in it, and conveyed her to the quarters of Colonel O’Neill, where she was warmly welcomed and affectionately tended by that gallant officer’s amiable wife. CHAPTER XLIV. AFTER A WHILE. Kind hearts there are, yet would the tenderest one Have limits to its mercy; God has none. And man’s forgiveness may be true and sweet, But yet he stoops to give it. More complete Is love that lays forgiveness at thy feet, And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven Means CROWNED, not HUMBLED, when it says “Forgiven.” —A. A. PROCTOR. Let us reverently pass over that awful calamity of April the fourteenth, which followed so swiftly upon the winged feet of Victory, quenching all her lights of joy and of triumph in darkness and in blood. The Nation’s holy sorrow is too sacred a subject to be treated here.